But I’m not thinking about any of that. I’m only thinking about Jenna.
I’m thinking about the way she looked last night—hair spread over her pillow, lips swollen from kissing, eyes soft and dazed from a night full of orgasms. I made her come with my hands, tongue, and my dick. And I can’t wait to do it all over again.
I’m trying to focus as I drizzle dark chocolate over a tray of raspberry creams, but my mind’s back in her bedroom, replaying every sound, every tremble, every time she saidpleasein that breathless voice.
I’m so lost in the memory that I don’t hear the bell when someone walks in. But as soon as I hear their voice—the matured but unforgotten voice of someone I despise more with each second I spend with Jenna—I snap out of it.
“Hey! I need to talk to whoever’s in charge here.”
Bobby. Fucking. Jones.
I set my piping bag down and wipe my hands on a towel before stepping out of the kitchen. He’s standing in the middle of my shop like he owns the place: tall, broad, still coasting on the last fumes of his high school glory days. He’s in a tight, team-branded T-shirt that doesn’t hide the soft beer gut starting to show. His hair is gelled within an inch of its life, and his sunglasses are pushed up on his head like it’s the middle of summer instead of February.
He’s holding a box. I know that box. The thought makes me smirk, but I hide it.
“I’m in charge,” I announce, standing behind the front counter. “What can I do for you?”
He narrows his gaze, his eyes raking over my tattoos, my fitted black T-shirt, and the shop name printed on the left side of my chest. I’m tempted to flex my pecs since he can’t seem to take his eyes off them.
Then he sneers at me. “You the guy who made this?”
He points the box in my direction like I’ve personally insulted his bloodline.
“That’s my logo on it. Guess it’s mine,” I deadpan. “Something wrong with it?”
He flips the lid open with a snarky flourish and shoves it toward me. The life-size chocolate dick stares up from its bed of custom tissue paper, all shiny and glossy from its ghost pepper glaze. It’s a masterpiece, honestly. Except for the bitten off piece missing from the tip. Not surprised he’d go in headfirst.
I cross my arms over my chest with a stifled laugh.
“You think this is funny?” Bobby demands. “You think this is some kind of joke?”
“That’s exactly what it is. It’s a real gag.”
His brow furrows as my pun flies over his head. “I almost choked on this thing. I could’ve died, asshole.”
I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. “Calm down. It ain’t that serious. Just a customer sending you what you deserve.”
“Yeah. And I bet I know exactly who that customer is.” His upper lip curls into a snarl as he mutters, “Crazy bitch. If I had known she’d grow into a chubby prude, I never would’ve married her.”
My vision flashes red, and I fist my hands at my sides as heat crawls up my spine. “Call her anything but her name again, and we’re gonna have problems.”
“She’s my ex-wife and I’ll call her whatever the fuck I want.”
If this man had any brain cells left, he’d shut his mouth. Clearly, he’s taken too many hits to the head over the years to think straight.
“Hernameis Jenna.”
He looks me up and down, sizing me up. “You know her?”
“Yeah, you could say that.” I can’t help the smirk that appears on my face. “Matter of fact, I’ve gotten to know her damn well lately.”
He straightens his stance when he finally catches my meaning. Then he leans in my direction as he studies my face. “Wait a minute. I know you,” he says slowly. “You’re that weird kid with the sketchbook. Ain’t you mute or something?”
My face scrunches with disbelief. “What the fuck?”
“I never heard you say two words until now. Just always lurking around. Being all weird and shit.”
Now I do roll my eyes, annoyed with this idiot’s lack of vocabulary. “Just because I didn’t have anything to say to you, doesn’t mean I was mute, jackass.”
